Switchblade Glances
by Cola Karmon
Summary: Draco is the successor to his Family's Mafia. Harry is the leader of the most powerful street gang in the city.  More than bullets are going to fly.  AU.  Warnings for language, violence, sexual content and character deaths.
1. The End is the Beginning

AN: Of course, this was inspired by a song. Particularly it was N.E.R.D.'s "Lapdance." Which put the sudden image of Harry Potter in the Bronx in my head. At first I cracked up but then I was like, "Wait, I can make this happen." So it's happening. Have fun with the gangster romance.

Edit: Updated. Thank you so much to my beloved Toasty who is doing amazing beta work for me on this fic. You're absolutely brilliant and I am so blessed to have you.

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><p>It was with mild irritation that Draco navigated the hallways of the mansion. He took no issue with his mother's insistence that he spend the Easter holiday there at his childhood home. But he still found it intensely frustrating that he had to walk an endless maze just to get from his bedroom to his father's study. At his own flat, he only need walk from one side of the expansive studio to the other. None of this twisting-hallway, pointless-staircase nonsense.<p>

With an inaudible huff of annoyance, Draco knocked on the door of his father's study. There was only a split second wait before he was summoned inside. He pushed the door open and entered.

Lucius Malfoy's study was Draco's least favorite place in the world. Many of his boyhood nightmares began in that place—standing before his father's wide, cherrywood desk, berated for how disappointing Draco was. And then the vision would dissolve into some instance of torture in return for his insolence.

True enough, it was the room where Draco had been informed of every punishment he ever received (though never as inhumane as he'd dream about in fear). But Draco had kept in line for the past eight years just fine once he got through that rebellious teen phase. There was no reason for him to be there as the subject of his father's displeasure. Still, he couldn't help the subconscious twinge of guilt which pulsed through him as he entered the room.

His father sat at his desk, as he always had, bodyguards on either side with their meaty hands clasped in front of them. They glanced at Draco before relaxing when they realized that he was indeed their boss's son and not some overly-confident assassin.

Draco shut the door behind himself and approached the desk, standing still and silent until his father bade him sit.

"You wanted to see me?" Draco asked as he crossed one leg over the other and sat with his back straight, hands folded in his lap.

"I did," said Lucius, signing some document and then putting it aside so he could look into his son's eyes. "There is a matter that I wished to bring to your attention."

Draco held face, but internally his frown deepened. So there was something wrong. His father would never bring up something pleasant to discuss in such a manner. Pleasantries were for the public eye, he would say. Family matters are to be taken seriously.

"What is it that's troubling you, Father?"

Lucius leaned back in his chair and waved a dismissive hand.

"Oh, they're not troubling me," he said. "Not so much as adding another tick to the annoyances I'm already burdened with." He cut a cigar with a sharp snap—a sound that always made Draco uneasy—and then lit it before taking a long drag and sending smoke spiraling into the air. One of the guards wrinkled his nose in disdain. Draco noticed but didn't draw any attention to it. "But I thought you should be aware that there is a new street gang out in our city." The disdainful crease of the man's brow and the slight lift of a sneer at his lips spoke volumes of Lucius's opinion on this development.

Draco blinked.

"A gang?" His father narrowed his eyes at the skeptical tone—and though a younger Draco would have sputtered an insincere apology, this one understood how his father operated. "Father, the street gangs of La Croix have an average lifespan of three days under the harassment of the Death Eaters. Why should this news concern me?"

Lucius nodded; his son had passed that test, which he was proud of but it remained an unspoken fact.

"It is cause for concern because as of an hour ago, the leader of the Death Eaters was killed and the gang disbanded, care of said hoodlums," he said. That did make his son's eyes widen. Quietly, he took another drag from his cigar to let his heir digest the news.

Draco was stunned. The Death Eaters had reigned over the slums of La Croix since before he was even born. Of course, their activity had always been a thorn in his father's side. But the Death Eaters had been indirectly useful for putting down any rising factions who thought they might become more of a problem for the Malfoy Family. Draco had seen their leader before—a Mister Riddle—and found the fellow to be antagonizing and more or less distressing. He would have never predicted the man would die in a gang clash. He didn't seem the type.

Returning to reality, Draco looked back up at his father, understanding the severity of the situation.

"What do we know about this new gang?" he asked as politely as he could. Lucius nodded again and took the cigar from his lips, flicking the cherry off into an ashtray before he began.

"They're called Red Bolts, apparently. A group of upstarts, not many older than yourself. They're led by a lad named Harry Potter, supposedly a wild-hearted renegade with a penchant for scarlet bandanas." Lucius Malfoy shook his head and probably would've rolled his eyes if the motion wasn't beneath him. He gave a quiet hiss of derision to punctuate his thoughts on the matter then continued on. "The gang is only a few dozen strong but they managed to locate, infiltrate and destroy the Death Eaters from the inside in less than an hour."

Draco nodded slowly, taking this all in. There was one element missing that he needed for a complete analysis.

"What is it they want?" he asked his father in all seriousness. Lucius didn't smile; though he did look his son right in the eyes.

"They have yet to publicly announce their mission; however, I assume that since they've now staked their petty claim, we will be hearing more about them at some point." He relaxed back in the leather chair once more and turned aside. "As successor to the Family, I expect you to keep an eye on the activities of those who might seek to disrupt us. Assume any possible threat can compromise us until you're assured that it won't."

"Yes, Father." Draco bowed his head just so as he always did to show his respect.

"Very good, son. You may go. I'll see you at dinner."

Draco excused himself from the room and made haste to depart the mansion. This was the kind of news he would want to share with Blaise and the others—especially since these Red Bolts were in their age group. It'd probably be easy to find them. And Draco needed to find them, needed to know just what this Harry Potter bloke was up to with his little ragtag band of gang-crushers. Anyone willing to take down the most notorious street gang in La Croix had to be itching for something. Probably a knife in the gut, at the rate they were going.

* * *

><p>"Harry, are you all right?"<p>

Harry, hunched over, looked up into Hermione's worried face. Her brown eyes flickered back and forth across his features and in the end, he gave her a tired but assuring smile. His leather-gloved hand lifted from where it had been gripping his knees and he patted her on the shoulder.

"I'm fine, 'Mione," he whispered, nudging the bandana that was pulled across his brow. The red fabric was damp from soaking up the prickling of sweat from his forehead.

"Well, it's done, mate," Ron called from behind them. Harry let Hermione help him to his feet and then turned to face Ron, Ginny and Neville when they came walking in. "Tom Riddle's sleeping with the fishes with a stomach full of cement." There was a sober silence as Harry nodded and let out a quiet sigh. Ginny pushed around her brother and wrapped him in a hug, which he was more than willing to accept. He crushed her against his chest and put his nose to her lavender-scented hair, eyes closing as the familiar aroma washed through his addled thoughts.

It was over. Everything was finished. After years of planning—of gathering followers and securing supplies—the Red Bolts had finally overcome the most dangerous street gang in the city. Harry had been picturing this moment since he was eleven years old, when he had learned the truth behind his parents' deaths. He had been planning for it over the past five years. But now, as he stood there in the aftermath, corpses still strewn about the warehouse in the cool mist of the dawn, Harry didn't feel mighty. He felt tired, ready to put down his gun forever and sleep.

Sad truth of it was that he couldn't. He knew if he took this step, he'd have to push through to the very end. And even though this was their victory, it wasn't the end of the war.

Harry shook his head and pulled away from Ginny. She looked up at him with her knowing eyes and said nothing as she took his hand and stood by his side.

"Neville," Harry said, looking up at the man to whom he entrusted the lives of every one of his brothers and sisters, "tell everyone to go home and get some rest. We'll meet up in forty-eight hours at the Spot to discuss our next move."

"Of course," Neville said, nodding in his confident way. But even he looked a little ragged with his cheek sliced from a knife wound. "Get some sleep, Harry." And he departed.

Harry turned to Ron with stones in his heart.

"How many are dead?" he asked.

"Two," Ron said softly. "We lost Lavender in a Molotov blaze. And Colin was shot three times in the back." Hermione was silently weeping as she rested her head against Ron's shoulder, his arm around her. Harry could only nod; his breathing was a bit short.

"Dennis?" he asked.

"He's shook up," Ron said.

"Tell him he can leave if he wants," Harry said. "No retribution." Ron nodded.

"I will. You gonna be okay going home, mate?"

"I'll be fine," Harry assured him. "I'll see you guys later." He gave Ron and Hermione a hug goodbye and then left the warehouse holding Ginny's hand.

The morning was cool and damp with the spray of the sea. Dawn had pushed over the horizon but a few hours ago, leaving a chilling edge in the breezes down at the Eastern Docks. In the distance, the sharp wail and whistle of the trains were rattling about the tracks and the music of the fishermen calling back and forth to one another as they made their way out to sea came as a closer hum of activity.

Harry buttoned up his black duster before climbing his Ducati and revving it. Ginny put a hand on his shoulder and gave him her soft smile before leaning in and kissing his forehead.

"Call me when you get home," she said, squeezing his arm just so. The corner of his mouth twitched; it wanted to be a smile to assure her. But Harry's thoughts were on things far away and crushing him down. So he just nodded. He had two days to grieve and panic and rage. And then it was back to business.

Harry pulled the throttle and sped from the docks as fast as he willed. With his shades pulled down, he couldn't blame the wind for the stinging he felt in his eyes.

* * *

><p>Harry stood on the fire escape of his apartment and stared across the rooftops of La Croix's Bellary district with a bottle of ginger beer in his hand. It was his favorite but, at the halfway point, when he had ventured outside, Harry had forgotten about it. He leaned against the rusty railing of the metal staircase, seemingly focused on a flitting clothesline a few buildings over. In actuality, he wasn't seeing, all thought processes away from his senses and in his mind.<p>

He was remembering the day he, Ron and Hermione had decided they were going to do something with this city. Three street-crawling children who had no plan and nothing in common except that they didn't want to be afraid anymore. Harry's parents had been murdered in a gang war by the very man he killed himself the day before, the same man who thought it would be funny to carve a lightning bolt into a one-year-old's forehead. Harry had been sent off to live with his aunt and uncle on the other side of the tracks—the "right" side, most would say—but he always found himself stumbling back over to Bellary, Gwayne and Acsis. Those districts made up the ghettos, commonly referred to as the Drops.

It was a scary place. But Harry preferred it there. It was where he met Ron and the other Weasleys and Hermione too. It was also where he found his godfather Sirius and a new home to live in away from his horrible relatives—people who treated Harry like shite because he was born in the East Side. But even though the Drops felt more like home, it wasn't any safer. He learned to wield a knife at twelve, a gun at fourteen. Even unarmed, Harry posed enough of a threat to anyone who wandered the streets. Luckily, though, Harry managed to stay out of the clutches of any other gangs. There were a lot of them. Most didn't last long, particularly because of the Death Eaters. But they were ruthless.

It was Ron, though, who really encouraged Harry to start his own gang. He went on about how Harry had great vision and was the kind of guy that people could really follow: a guy who could change the face of what it meant to be a gangster. "You never hurt people who don't deserve it," he'd said to Harry. "There are plenty of people who've just been waiting for someone like you to make a change in this city."

The Weasleys had lived in the Drops for generations, weaving their alliances back and forth until finally finding a permanent shelter in the border district of Tills: close to the action, but not up for gang territory since it was owned by the Malfoy Family. Ron said it wasn't much better though. They just went from having to worry about getting shanked on the streets to accidentally wandering into Family sanctions. After hearing Harry spout a desire to put an end to all of the crime gangs and mafia families, Ron pressed him to seriously work something out, saying he'd be his right hand mate, no questions asked.

And then Hermione. She didn't live in the Drops at all, or even near it for that matter. She did go to the Black Academy for Astute Young Women, however, which was owned by the Black Family. As a plebe among the Mafia Family daughters and the other high-profile girls who attended, she caught a lot of flak for showing her face there without any Family connections. She found Harry and Ron when she missed the train home and almost got wrangled by a trafficker. They saved her and then took her to Sirius's apartment…where Harry was now standing, looking at nothing but thinking about everything. Hermione had protested at first but once she got thinking about it, she began coming up with ways that it could actually happen.

A decade later, Harry was the leader of the Red Bolts, a name Ron came up with, saying that Harry's scar was a trademark. They were thirty-two strong—no…no, it was thirty now—and had the support of families all over the Drops. And now they were the ruling gang. Harry suspected he probably wouldn't believe it until he returned to the streets.

There was a pounding on the door and Harry returned to his body, turning back to duck through his window. He let Ron and Hermione in, smiling at them quietly before Hermione pushed a brown bag of takeaway into his arms. "It's your favorite," she said. "Come on, let's celebrate. Just us, before the real party starts, okay?"

Harry's grin broke out in full with a pleased chuckle as he peered into the bag and inhaled the scent of rich, MSG-laden Chinese food.

"Yeah, alright," he said. They walked to his kitchen and Harry decided that he'd stop thinking so hard for a few evenings. Hell would break loose soon enough. For now, he was going to have his victory.

_-To Be Continued-_


	2. Then Eyes Lock

AN: Edited. Thank you to Toasty. God knows I need more people to tell me when I'm wrong with the size of my ego what it is.

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><p>"So you're telling me some no-name street thugs just up and razed the Death Eaters to the ground without warning?"<p>

Draco looked over at Blaise with a quirked eyebrow as he swirled cognac around the glass he cradled.

"Well, I'm sure they had _some_ sort of warning," he said, apathetic. "It was only a surprise to the Families who don't particularly care what those vermin get up to down in their holes."

"Does that include yours?" Theo asked, a sneer curving his lips.

"Funny that, Theo," Pansy chipped in, "I could've sworn it was _your_ father who was about to sink some investments in with the Death Eaters." The dark-haired boy turned a sharp scarlet and snapped his scowl back into place. Pansy preened in her victory, pressing onward. "Something about assisting their silly aspirations to earn the Families' favor…. Did _you_ hear about that, Blaise?"

"I recall a whispered hope that perhaps if a new piece was added to the board, the Nott Family might find themselves in better standing than the short of the stick they're toting now. What was it, Theo? Harlots in the Drops?" He and Pansy laughed their respective chuckles and Theo burned in ripened anger.

"You should be careful when making moves in a pit of vipers," Draco advised him amicably.

"Of course." The bitterness was rough, pressed between the boy's tongue and the line of his teeth.

"So what's got Mister Malfoy up in arms, then?" Blaise asked, dropping the subject of Theo's humiliation now that he'd been silenced.

"Father isn't up in arms about anything," Draco scoffed, rolling his eyes. "Though apparently, this pack—the Red Bolts?—have been poking around some of the high-security warehouses ever since they mowed over the Death Eaters. None of ours, of course, but as far as I know, these rats aren't too picky."

"I think I heard something about that," Blaise muttered, looking offside as if the fireplace could somehow recount the information to him. "Didn't the Greengrass's have an issue with a break-in a few days ago?"

"That's right!" Pansy gasped in realization. "Astoria told me herself that they had several of their weapons crates lifted. You think it was that gang?"

Draco shrugged. "May as well be," he said. "So with that being the issue, my father thinks it prudent to intervene on this matter himself. Reach out to the leader and persuade him to keep his filthy fingers off our merchandise."

"You don't think he'll secure that bargain by agreeing to look the other way when the gang goes after other Families, do you?" Theo gave Draco a cold look, the imprint of the blond's unapologetic sneer frozen in his eyes. "And you'll just let him."

"What my father decides to do with his business prospects is of no interest to me. But I will say, Theo, that if your Family can't protect your own shite then that's your problem, not mine." The smirk melted into a false flash of pleasantness and then Draco finished off his cognac, setting the glass on the table before the sofa. "With that, dear friends, I must be off. For though I have no interest in dallying with hooligans, I've been requested to sit in on this meeting."

Draco kissed Pansy's cheek and shook both Blaise and Theo's hands (the latter squeezing a bit harder than necessary) and then departed the opulent hotel salon with no further words. A quick nod to the men standing guard at the door. Draco departed and slung his jacket about his shoulders, heading for the silver Mercedes-Benz that had been brought to the loop out front.

The drive home wouldn't take long, but Draco used the time spent in the close space of his favorite car to mull over the impending meeting. He really didn't want to have to sit through it. But it wasn't as if he could refuse. If Lucius Malfoy wanted you to be somewhere, you better make damn sure you were there. Draco didn't have the time to deal with whatever retribution would come of his disobedience. And if that meant he spent an hour in the company of uncouth mongrels—he groaned; they probably would stink to high heaven—then so be it.

The leader of the Red Bolts along with a couple of his companions, probably those in high command within the gang, had agreed to meet with them in Malfoy territory. Draco snorted in disdain. Obviously their victory over the Death Eaters had to have been some sort of fluke. No self-respecting crime syndicate would agree to negotiations anywhere but neutral territory—unless this was a sign that they were going to be nice and subservient. Draco hoped so; it would get things over with quickly. He had more important matters to occupy his precious time.

Draco stopped home to change clothes. First impressions meant a good suit, no matter who they were meeting. It was a Malfoy rule—one which Draco never had a problem keeping. He chose a Dolce and Gabbana black trouser and blazer, coupledwith a shirt in dusky lavender-gray and a black and bronze tie. Draco ran a comb through his hair, last second, before topping it with his favorite fedora. His father absolutely hated that hat. Draco had the light-hearted tendency to make fun of his Family's lifestyle by buying into the popular conception of mobster fashion. It was his idea of a joke. He long got over the fact that his father thought it a disgrace. Father thought half of what Draco did a disgrace.

"Fuck that," Draco muttered to himself as he closed the door to his car and pulled away from the garage of the studio complex. "You drag me along to this ungodly encounter; can't expect me to just sit back and take it quietly." And if wearing a hat was the only way he could get by with communicating his displeasure with the situation without getting backhanded then, dammit, he was going to wear it. Petty, maybe, but it made him smile.

Draco arrived at the club fifteen minutes early. It was Sunday so no one was there but, since it was owned by his Family, Draco was allowed entrance without a second glance. His father was already there with Severus, discussing something over in the VIP section. His eyes flashed to Draco when he entered, darkening in displeasure when his father caught sight of him. Draco kept his smile off his face but inside he bubbled with his small joy. With that mission accomplished, he took the hat off, handing it and the keys to the doorman who had stepped up to take them.

Greeting his father and then his godfather, Draco smiled and knew he could sit through this whole ordeal with a pleasant manner, if only to see the lingering twitch in the corner of Lucius Malfoy's mouth. Entirely worth it.

* * *

><p>Harry stood in front of the mansion-looking building with the sleeves of his duster rolled up around his elbows and his hands in his pockets. Behind dark aviator shades, his green eyes were scanning the doors, the windows, counting and making note of how high the tallest floor went. One of the most important things Sirius taught him: if you're going somewhere unfamiliar, make sure you know how to get out.<p>

"Ready when you are, mate," Ron said, stepping up to his right, Hermione on Harry's left. Neville would've been there too, but Neville insisted he stay back at the Spot to make sure they weren't ambushed. Their last conquest rather widened the target they had on their heads. There had already been a couple of riots, and it hadn't even been a whole week yet.

Harry nodded and tightened the knot of his bandana before pulling off his shades and walking up the few brick stairs to the front door. The portal opened and Harry entered, Ron and Hermione right behind him. The place was rich with the scent of cigar smoke. There were several billiard tables about, felted in green and empty at the moment, but pool cues were lined along the nearby walls. Further in on a raised platform was a long, mahogany bar. Behind it glittered an array of liquor bottles and drinking vessels. There were a few doors on the back wall and several tables, all with chairs stacked atop them between the doors and the pool tables.

In the very back corner, behind a slight partition of wallspace, there was a light and in its glow, three men sat, all staring at Harry. Harry only took a moment to stand in stillness before walking straight through the shadowy hall towards them, the steps of his friends near. The three men stood, the one in the middle inclining his head to acknowledge them.

"Welcome, Mister Potter," he said. He extended his hand, but kept wary eyes on all of them behind his smile. One of those familiar gestures that came when you knew that you were shaking the hand of someone who was armed, Harry thought as he obliged the offer.

"Thank you," he said, his voice pushing out in a strong resonance. He withdrew his hand to gesture to either side of himself. "This is Ron Weasley, my right hand man. And Hermione Granger, my tactics coordinator." There were handshakes all around.

The man in the middle, an elderly gentleman with a long braid of white-blond hair and a well-tailored suit was none other than Lucius Malfoy himself, arguably the most powerful administrator of the national black market. On his left was a man simply identified as 'a close friend,' Severus Snape, who was of similar age to Mr. Malfoy, but with shorter, slicked, black hair and a vulture-like countenance that showed a mild displeasure with his situation.

"And this is my son, Draco," Lucius said, turning to the person on his right. Harry looked this man right in the eyes and a thrill shocked through him, whip-like. At first it was simply because this Draco character was unnaturally beautiful. He looked like he belonged on a runway rather in a smoky corner of some mobster club. Soft blond hair that fell gently about his brow and ears; a confidently structured face with smooth, milky skin and just a slight softness at the curve of his jaw; dressed in something that probably came right from the latest couture that hid a lean body—but not those long, grasping fingers that took hold of Harry's hand and shook it.

"Charmed," the man—Draco—said, gentle and low. His silver eyes gleamed in a grin that wasn't quite obvious on thin, pink lips. Harry nodded.

"Likewise," he answered, silently thankful that his voice hadn't cracked. Just the sheer force of Draco Malfoy's confidence had his blood prickling. That, and for some reason, he incited a sudden tweak of recognition in the back of Harry's mind. He was unable to put his finger on the cause, though. Once all the introductions were done and everyone seated again, Lucius Malfoy delved right into business.

"Congratulations on your overtake of the Death Eaters, Mister Potter," he said.

"Just Harry is fine, Sir," Harry said. "And thank you."

"I hope your numbers didn't suffer at the endeavor."

"No, Sir," Harry said, and could feel the quick glance that Hermione cast at him for the statement. Harry didn't need this guy to know every detail of their gang's workings. That wasn't an intelligent move, and it wasn't what he was here for.

"Forgive me," Lucius said, leaning back in his chair as he picked up the cigar that was smouldering in the ashtray on the table, "but I didn't expect you to be so polite. Most gangs from the Drops don't have much courtesy, let alone the intelligence to string a coherent sentence together." Harry huffed a short laugh, unable to help the grin that spread on his face.

"I suppose that's to be expected, seeing as how the schools in the Drops are poorly attended and underfunded." Stick to the point, he pressed with his tone. _Keep going down that road and I'll continue to spotlight how your extortion ruins lives in other ways._ Harry flicked his gaze over to where Draco sat, those sharp eyes just gleaming with something dangerous. A dark eyebrow slid upward without thought and then returned as soon as Lucius began again.

"Well, enough pleasantries," he said. "Harry, in all honesty, I've asked for you to meet me here to discuss a deal between the two of us."

Harry settled comfortably into the chair, resting one booted ankle on his knee as he folded his arms over his chest.

"What's on your mind, then, Mister Malfoy?" he asked lightly, still managing to maintain his countenance in a sober sincerity. Last thing he needed to demonstrate was disrespect. These Families were pretty touchy about being treated like they were better. Not that Harry agreed with that. But he needed to go home without any blood spilled and if that involved doing a bit of scraping, then fine. No skin off his back.

"Rumor has it that you've set your sights on clearing out La Croix of the greater part of its rivaling street gangs," the man named Snape drawled in place of Lucius, who seemed to be busy puffing away at his cigar. "What is your goal in that, exactly?"

"We're just trying to create a safe place for our families," Ron said, obviously feeling confident now that the leaders weren't the only ones speaking. "Living in a city with no police force, 'least we can do is try and keep the Drops safe from people like the Death Eaters."

"La Croix is a breeding ground for crime syndicates and gang violence," Hermione chipped in. "We want to see an end to it all." It was a dangerous announcement. Hermione knew that. But Harry had already told them both before they got here that he wasn't going to lie to these people just so they could cover their arses. They had already declared their war on the organized crime world of La Croix with the takedown of the Death Eaters. No sense in trying to hide that now.

"I see," Lucius said darkly. Yep. Their welcome had run out.

"I trust you have all the answers to your questions," Harry said shortly, getting back to his feet.

"Indeed," came a similarly curt reply.

"Then we'll get out of your space. You have a good day, Mister Malfoy, Mister Snape…." Harry trailed off as he glanced over at the young Malfoy, whose mouth was tilted in a small smirk. Harry simply dipped his head in a sort of bow, though never taking his eyes from that razor-colored stare. He dared his own twitch of a sneer back before quickly departing the club with his friends right behind him.

"Did you know that bloke, Harry?" Ron asked as he mounted his bike, Hermione climbing onto the seat behind him.

"I could've sworn I've seen him somewhere before," Harry said, pulling on his shades.

"Funny," Hermione muttered, "I feel like I have, too." But it was a mystery as to why anyone from the Drops would've ever seen the face of anyone from the Families. Not the grunts and yuppies who worked from them, but someone from the actual Family.

Harry grunted in a mild discontent but then he revved his Ducati and tore out of that place like there was hellfire after him.

Back in the club, Severus turned to his friend and asked, "Do you think it wise to let them go unscathed?"

"It's fine," Lucius said lightly. "You heard what they said. Their ideals are for children. If they aren't stamped out within the month, we can crush them in a blink. Their moral standards keep them from true might."

Draco said nothing, though neither of the other men noticed. Instead, he stared out the window, watching a motorcycle pummel down the street, duster coat flying out like black wings in the ripping winds. His mind tumbled with intrigue, accompanied by a lingering glow of green that seemed to shock to his very soul.

Draco wondered how good this Potter fellow was in a knife fight.

_-To Be Continued-_


	3. And the Beat Drops

AN: Thank you to all of my patient readers. Here is your reward. I hope you enjoy. A humongous thank you to my beloved beta reader Toasty, who is without doubt an absolute gem.

* * *

><p>It wasn't as if the man and his captivating presence were the only things Draco thought about since then. He had plenty of other matters to occupy his thoughts—things like attending to Family business affairs, double checking shipments and acting as diplomat for the various deals which needed closing. It was in the still hours—times when Draco was driving in his car between places, or when he was standing in the shower with the water spraying against his shoulders, or when he was sitting in his favorite club and somehow managing to completely ignore the brain-rattling music that was pulsing through the speakers—that he found his thoughts leaning towards a pair of shocking green eyes.<p>

The meeting with the Red Bolts had been unexpectedly pleasant. Not for its content but for the mere fact that Draco had managed to learn about these people and retained his high-class sensibilities, undamaged by their presumed ruffian tendencies. But, no, they were all clean and none of them had horrible grammar or randomly pulled a weapon out when they felt the heat from Lucius. Draco was impressed. It was no wonder they managed to pull one over on the Death Eaters: they actually looked like they thought before they acted.

It was a wonder, really. Draco didn't think that there were people left in the Drops who actually had the sense to make plans. And effective ones at that. Then again, he didn't spend any of his time in those slums—absolutely filthy, they were—so he reckoned he couldn't be one to give the best judgment.

But more than the fact that these people actually had something of worth in their skulls was the general impression their leader had left on him. The encounter was something that floated around in Draco's mind, like he'd looked directly into a camera flash and the distorted spot of pigment wouldn't leave him be. Harry Potter was a pleasant deviation from what Draco had first envisioned. First of all, he was a lot younger than what Draco had been picturing, unmarred by the ridiculous tattoos, track marks and scars that many of those who dwelled in the Drops tended to flaunt like they were some mark of achievement. He seemed very confident, never breaking his eye contact. Though other street thugs might've pretended they were the strongest shite on the planet, Draco knew better. He could see their resolve break when his father stared down at them. Funny what the combination of money and might did for a person's intimidation factor.

Potter's looks certainly stood out. Just thinking about that unexpectedly handsome face made Draco's eyebrow lift in intrigue. He was damned good looking. Draco was sure that when any girl envisioned their dream bad-boy lover, the image they entertained was probably of this fit, dark-haired renegade with his blood red bandana and black duster coat, those sharp eyes just glowing with a dark and troubled past. Draco could see the appeal.

Potter's eyes were so clear, unclouded by the typical glaze of drug addiction that he'd come to expect from the Drops crowd. And so his thoughts lingered on the razor-green slice of Potter's stare as Draco reclined on a purple velvet sofa in Nameless, sightlessly staring over the balcony's railing down at the DJ on the stage below.

"And what planet are you on right now?" someone suddenly yelled in his ear. It didn't startle Draco, though; the music was already way too loud. He glanced over to where Pansy was kneeling on the couch next to him, smiling her dark-lipped grin with her head tilted in curiosity. She handed him the cosmopolitan that she'd been holding as he smiled back and leaned in to answer her.

"I'd say Uranus, but I know that isn't your cuppa."

She laughed and nudged him playfully. "You want to go down for a dance? Blaise just caught hold of this nice lass and wants to have a grind on her for a bit. You should join us."

Draco took a long sip from the glass, his brow pinching in the way it always did when he was about to tell someone 'no.' Pansy caught him before he could say anything.

"No, no, you don't get to deny me this time," she said, taking the glass back and setting it on a table. "You've turned me down the past three times we've been here; I'm owed a dance." She grabbed his elbow and tugged him up to his feet just as Draco rolled his eyes. He resigned not to protest, though, and grabbed her hand so he could be a bit more dignified instead of looking like a child, dragged around by the hand.

The floor was absolutely packed. The mass of bodies moved with every beat, uniformly pulsing. In and out, back and forth. Darkness filled the space, broken through by the shattering flashes of strobe lights and laser patterns that cut across the deep violet aura. Pansy drew Draco about halfway towards the middle so they were nicely crushed all about by a grinding throng and then started to dance along with them.

Dancing wasn't Draco's favorite thing to do, but sometimes it was nice to get lost. It was very easy to do; the heat that blanketed the mass of people was quite helpful in the pursuit of losing your mind. Already, Draco felt sweat sticking his shirt to his back and the closeness of those around him made his world contract until it was just him and his space, his own mind.

Songs didn't end in that place, they all just blended into one another so no one had to stop dancing. Draco opened his eyes, though, after one of the transitions to smile down at Pansy who had her hands around his shoulders. She grinned back at him, smearing sweat away from her brow before bumping her hips up against his and falling back into the new rhythm. Draco was about to return to the pace of the beats as well, just glancing quickly past her shoulder.

But in the short moment where a gap appeared in the crowd as a few departed the floor, Draco caught sight of a man in a red bandana with black hair, holding a pretty ginger girl from behind by her hips as he murmured something in her ear.

Draco blinked, stunned, but that was the only sign of stopping that he gave before sinking right back into movement and closing his eyes. In his head, though, thoughts were flying wild.

Harry Potter? Here in Nameless? How long had he been coming here? The club had been open for a while, smack in the middle of the city, underground. And the one thing about it was that it wasn't anyone's. It had no territory claims by any gang or Family and thus was truly the only neutral spot in town, hence the title 'Nameless.' So it wasn't outrageous that Draco's favorite club could've very well been Potter's hot spot as well. But then Draco started wondering why he'd never seen the man there before.

It was like his curiosity—though stifled and only prone to the still moments when Draco didn't have anything to think about—suddenly revved off without him. Draco wanted to know everything. The chance encounter of seeing the man here, when he didn't think he'd ever see him again, was like a cage around his thoughts, enclosing Draco's mind in possibility and inquisitiveness.

Which is why he didn't really notice when Pansy slipped off to go get something to drink, leaving Draco dancing there alone.

* * *

><p>Harry smiled against Ginny's hair, pressing a kiss or two against it as he just rocked his hips back and forth while he held her dancing form. Harry didn't dance. Not at all. But when your best girl asked if you'd join her on the dance floor for a few songs, you didn't say no. Especially when she was gorgeous and there were other men on the planet. Ginny could take care of herself, Harry knew that. He'd seen the girl rip through a bloke's eyeball once when he tried to come after her. Didn't change the fact that he was jealous enough to sink bullets in heads if pushed the wrong way. All weapons had to be left at the door—it was one of the top rules—but Harry didn't need the provocation, even if he was 'unarmed.'<p>

Ginny didn't mind his hip-holding-and-rocking bit though; it worked for her. So that's how they danced. Packed in on all sides by grinding bodies, sweaty and ripe with the smell of alcohol with the music so loud that Harry felt it pound over his own heartbeat. That was the best part, really: the closeness and heat of the girl he loved and the rib-rattling pulse of the music. Like being in the womb again, where you didn't have to think about anything.

"Harry!" Ginny suddenly yelled over the bass. "Harry, I'll be back real quick, alright?"

"Be careful," he called after her as she pushed through the throb of people. Harry made to work his way out of the crowd himself and find Ron and Hermione—hopefully they'd still be by the bar and not joining in with the horde—but came to a halt as he beheld Draco Malfoy, successor to the Malfoy Family Mafia, dancing by himself.

First was the shock of realization: aha, _this_ is where Harry had seen him before. And then there was a nearby wave of unnamed wonderment as Harry stood stock still and stared at the man. Malfoy's hips circled to the beat, his arms lifted so a strip of pale, sweaty flesh gleamed along the line of his denims. And his eyes were closed, as if he were off in his own world and didn't realize that…. Harry blinked rapidly and shook his head when the subject of his scene suddenly shifted.

Malfoy was there dancing—right, of course—but he was only alone in the first few moments that Harry saw him. Because just then, a dark-skinned man came up behind the blond and caught his hips, dancing right against him. Harry watched as grey eyes flashed open and Malfoy looked back to see who had invaded his space. But then he relaxed and a smile spread out over those thin lips and he went right back to dancing.

When he resumed the position he had originally been facing—that is, towards Harry—he caught Harry's gaze and the smile froze. That was only for a moment, though. Then it blossomed into something more like a smirk and with a graceful lurch of those bony hips, Malfoy settled comfortably into what Harry could only think of as a lapdance without a lap.

He felt his face glowing as he tore away from the spot he'd been standing in. And that was saying something because it was already sweltering in Nameless to begin with; Harry felt a blush racing from one ear to the other across his face. And he was like that, hot-faced, when he suddenly collided with Ron.

"Whoa, mate, what's the matter?" Ron asked, catching Harry by the shoulders to steady him.

"You remember that Malfoy bloke we saw at the meeting with his father?" Harry said. "How I said he looked familiar?"

"Yeah, why?" Ron leaned against a nearby table, Hermione coming up next to him when she saw the distressed set of Harry's mouth.

"Well, it's because he comes here," Harry said, gesturing back towards the crowd of dancers. "I saw him out there with some bloke putting his hands all over him."

Ron gave a mildly disgusted cringe, his mouth screwing up in distaste. "He did look like a bit of a pouf. No bloke I know would dress like that, even if he _did_ have all the money in La Croix."

"That's beside the point, Ron," Harry said, shaking his head.

"It might not be such a good idea to be hanging out here, then," Hermione said, wringing her ponytail a bit. "Did he see you, Harry?" He nodded. "Yes, then it might be wise to avoid Nameless for a while."

"Why?" Ron asked. "We're in no-man's land. He can't lay a finger on us here."

"Think for a mo, Ron," Hermione said, shaking her head. "If Draco Malfoy knows that the Red Bolts come here, he can easily glean information he needs about us. This place may be neutral territory, but it's an open book of secrets if you know the right people to ask. We don't need the Malfoy Family checking in on us."

Ron pressed his lips together, grunting in frustration.

"Better tear outta here then," he said, resigned. "Where's Ginny?"

"I dunno," Harry said, a slip of panic edging around his tone. "She was with me on the dance floor then said she'd be back."

"Well, she hasn't been over here," Hermione said calmly. "She's probably in the loo; I'll go look." And Hermione went, taking most of Harry's dread with her. He was overthinking things. True, this place wouldn't really be that safe now that there were potential threats about. But it wasn't like Malfoy had just kidnapped his girlfriend. Malfoy didn't even know who Ginny was.

"We need to get everyone else out of here," Harry said to Ron. "Can you grab Neville, Luna and Cho? I'll get Dean and Seamus. That's everyone who came with us, right?" Ron nodded and then ducked into the crowd to go find their other friends. Harry went in a different direction: the one he'd seen Seamus and Dean take when they'd first arrived. He didn't know if they'd still be there, but it was worth a shot.

It was a bit difficult to hear over the ever-roaring music, but as Harry pushed his way through the crowd, he found himself in a small circle of space where Seamus was defensively holding his hands up, trying to calm down a dark haired girl who was looking rather wet.

"Are you kidding me!" the girl shrieked, the border of people pushing further from her in an effort to dodge her rage but keep dancing. "This is _Fredricka Louis original_! I can't just stuff it in a washing machine!"

"Look, lady," Seamus was trying very hard to remain out of the girl's reach, in case she decided to get lethal, "I didn't mean it; I'm sorry!"

"Do you intend to reimburse me for these?" she demanded. Harry stepped up next to Dean, who was standing nearby but not saying much, and leaned in.

"What's happening?"

"Seamus crashed into this girl here," Dean said. "Got beer all over her designer clothes, it looks like. And then the hissy fit commenced." Harry rolled his eyes.

He stepped up next to Seamus and put a hand on his shoulder, turning to look at the woman.

"Ma'am, I'm sorry for any trouble that my friend has caused but he has to get going now." Harry pushed Seamus towards Dean and, with a jerk of his head, let them know to head for the exit.

"Oh no, you don't!" the girl yelled, leaping forward and gripping Harry's shirt. "This is my favorite outfit and I'm not letting you out of my sight until I have compensation for it!"

"Pansy, what in the world is going on?"

* * *

><p>Draco stepped up next to Pansy, Blaise right behind him, and shot his warning glare towards the people who apparently were antagonizing her. It faltered only for a moment when he realized that he had just moved between Pansy and Harry Potter, who seemed to be herding the real culprits away. He maintained his characteristic threatening glare and watched as Potter more visibly crumpled in the realization that he'd just tangled with someone he didn't want to.<p>

"Well, well, well," Draco said, the mask of disdain blending seamlessly into his favorite smirk, "I certainly didn't expect to see you again, Harry Potter." That made Pansy do a bit of a double-take.

"You can't be serious," she scoffed. "This sod is the leader of the Red Bolts?"

"If you'll excuse us," Potter interrupted, looking more aggravated by the second.

"Now hold on, Potter," Draco said, luckily having to forgo snatching the man's arm in order to keep him there. Didn't matter how civilized this chap seemed to be; you couldn't just go around putting your hands on people from the Drops—they tended to react violently when their personal space was intruded upon. "Seems like one of your men has caused damage to my dear friend's property. And neither she nor I will stand for this heinous violation to slip by unpunished."

"Heinous violation?" Potter repeated, rage and resentment adding volume to his voice. "Are you serious?"

"As a heart attack," Draco sneered. "But if your man can simply pay the damages, I'm sure we can let this unfortunate accident pass without fuss."

"He doesn't have the money to pay for it," Potter said, knowing full well that the cost of Pansy's outfit could've easily made a down payment for a small residence in one of the nicer districts, like Sherrwood or Avior. "I'm afraid it's just not happening."

"You maggots don't have an option," Pansy shrieked, her hands flailing wildly.

"Now, now, dear," Draco placated her by rubbing her shoulder gently. "I'm sure there's something we could work out." Inside, Draco was glowing. It couldn't have possibly been this easy. Some god must have been in love with him because Draco was just handed a great opportunity like it had been plucked straight from the thread of the fates. And no, he wasn't going to pass it up for anything.

"How about this," he said after feigning consideration—the time spent contemplating his great luck and looking directly into the mad, glowing eyes of Harry Potter. "I will pay all of Pansy's necessary expenses," Potter gave him a sidelong glare, knowing it was too good to be true. He was right of course. "And in exchange, Potter must accept my challenge for a fight: knives. One on one. First blood."

One of Potter's cronies gripped him by the arm. "Come on, Harry, it's alright. I can pay her for it, it's just going to take a while." But Potter shook his head.

"No, Seamus, you need that money for your mum. No way I'm letting you give it up just to satisfy some bint who doesn't know what a dry cleaner is."

"Excuse me—!"

"We have an accord then?" Draco cut Pansy off before she compromised his plans, his hand jutting out to seal the deal. Potter gave him this glower of absolute disgust but thrust his own hand out, shaking on it. "Excellent. Tomorrow, then. Noon. Eastern Docks, warehouse 934." Potter tore his hand away and gave a sharp nod before swerving around and ushering his friends towards the exit. "See you there," Draco muttered under his breath, rather amused.

"Draco!"

He turned back to Pansy who was still looking outraged and damp. He held back a snigger at her expense and then wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

"Come now, let's go home and get you pretty again."

_-To Be Continued-_


	4. Your Heart Might Stop

AN: A billion blessings upon my beloved beta, Toasty. You're my favorite editor ever and that's saying something, because my shit's been edited by over a hundred people in my life. To my sweet readers, this is only the beginning. This is where shit gets real. Hope you enjoy the bloodshed; I do this all for you.

* * *

><p>Spring sunshine ripped down through the blue skies, pressing against the top of Harry's head like a jagged crown. His green eyes flicked up, taking a second to assess his opponent. The vernal glow of midday wreathed Draco Malfoy's platinum locks like a halo and glinted keenly off the butterfly knife he was dangerously flourishing in those piano fingers of his.<p>

Harry looked away again as he pulled his T-shirt over his head and handed it to Ron, leaving him in just a white undershirt and sunned, scarred biceps. The leader of the Red Bolts had been in these sorts of fights before; this one wasn't anything new in his book. In fact, Harry wondered if Malfoy could even put up a serious challenge for him. The hand he'd shaken twice now had been a firm grip but free of any calluses: the palm of an aristocrat who could pay for others to fight his battles for him. Harry had no protest; he'd humor him. The duel was Malfoy's idea in the first place. He didn't seem like the kind of bloke who would start a fire just to give himself a spotlight.

Harry had been wrong about people before, though. Regardless, he didn't plan to half-arse anything. If Malfoy was just looking for jollies, he could end up leaving with a slash through his pretty-boy face.

"Where's your Second?" Harry yelled over at the man who was leaning against the side of the warehouse by himself some fifteen meters away.

"My friend Zabini won't be joining us today," Malfoy called back, the soft rush of the nearby waves adding a layer of white noise over his voice. "Pressing Family emergency, if I'm not mistaken."

"D'you wanna postpone, then?" It was hard to tell from such a distance, but Harry was pretty sure Malfoy was rolling his eyes.

"If you somehow managed to win this thing, Potter, I seriously doubt I'd really need someone here to nurse me from the trauma of damage no worse than a paper cut."

Harry narrowed his eyes. Well, fine. He could be a tosser and underestimate Harry all he wanted. It would only make the sting twice as unbearable when Malfoy found himself in ribbons. No, no, Harry wouldn't kill him. He'd definitely shut him up, though.

"Time to get going, mate," Ron said after checking his watch. Harry nodded and pulled his favorite switchblade from his denims as he and Ron approached the half point, Malfoy strutting up to meet them.

Normally, both Seconds would negotiate terms and then compromise on rules but since it was just Ron, he stood off-shoulder to the two and stated the terms.

Grey eyes sneered at green and were met with a frigid glint in return.

"Right then," Ron said. "Switchblade-fight protocol: fifteen minute time limit, winner by first blood drawn by blade from the torso. No other contact is allowed. If there's no winner by the time fifteen minutes are up, the match is a draw. Seconds reserve rights to call foul play." Ron looked back and forth between the two of them.

"Let me ask you something, Malfoy," Harry said, taking a few steps back before flicking his blade out, "Why in the world did you put me up to this?"

Malfoy gave the most wicked smirk, opening his own weapon and said, "I bore easily, Potter. Entertainment is so hard to come by. And you…" a clipped laugh, "I could just tell by looking: you're easy to bait."

Fueled by the mounting tension and the resonance of Harry's rage, Ron jumped backed and yelled, "Begin!" The two men launched at each other, both itching to sink their blades in. Harry went right for Malfoy's neck, seeing an opening for it. He was blocked as Malfoy raised his blade preemptively, still smirking behind its steel glint. Pushing away, a split second between strikes, Harry could only think that by the end of this, he had to get rid of that sneer or it would plague him indefinitely.

What Malfoy lacked in power, he made up for in agility. It was difficult for Harry to make contact. But Malfoy couldn't manage a strike through the barrage of slices and jabs that Harry set against him either. The minutes found Draco's smug grin dissolving into a frustrated grimace. Harry countered Malfoy's speed with his own endurance, motivated by the grating desire to make the blond regret underestimating his prowess.

Appropriately enough, something changed for Malfoy then because he suddenly ducked and whipped around Harry, slashing out towards his shoulders. Harry only just managed to turn and throw his arm up. Malfoy's blade glided through the flesh of Harry's forearm, scattering blood across the sun-heated cement. It wasn't a winning hit, but Harry could see the triumph glittering in Malfoy's eyes at drawing the first blood.

Quickly, Harry knocked Malfoy's bloodied knife away from himself, attacking with renewed vigor. A low growl rumbled in his chest as Malfoy continued to evade and block him. Every now and then, he'd do that ducking maneuvre to see if he could deal the victory blow. Harry didn't let himself get caught a second time; he dodged every strike with flash-like reflexes.

"Ten minutes," Ron called out. With an angry clash of metal, both blades met and the two men pushed against each other, both leaning in with their weapons grinding, edge against edge. Malfoy let out a huffing laugh, redoubling his stance to make sure Harry couldn't push him back as easily.

"Let no one say you can't put up a good fight, Potter," he said.

"Shut up!" Harry spat. With an almighty shove, he forced Malfoy back and in the recoil, the few seconds that it took for his enemy to catch his balance, Harry turned his switchblade and stabbed him.

* * *

><p>The blade pierced a few centimeters in, right at the tender expanse of flesh just inside Draco's right hip. With its entry, he felt every nerve tighten and his lungs drew in air sharply, the startled sound of it lost beneath the buffeting sea breezes. It only took one second. Draco dropped his weapon. As it fell, he bent forward, his hands reaching out to heave against Potter's shoulders. And in that same second, as Potter reacted, arms flying upwards to balance himself. His blade ripped diagonally across Draco's chest.<p>

If being stabbed was like losing all the air in your body, getting slashed was like marking yourself with fire. The slice peeled through Draco's skin: through his light definition of the abs, across his pectoral and finally nicked against his collarbone, the fabric of his shirt rending and falling away in stained strips.

That one second was gone before Draco could realize what had actually happened. He held onto the image of a startled looking green and could sense nothing else except for the pain. His body collided with something cold and hard that grated his sweaty skin. Someone was yelling and it rang in Draco's skull like a death rattle, circling around his ears like a siren.

Darkness reeled in his vision and all sound was muffled until he only had the odd sensation of something—some things—cold and wet touching him. They trembled along the jagged strip of warm acid that had erupted across his chest. The wind grew colder. God, it hurt. Everything hurt.

Draco was having difficulty breathing. He couldn't draw it in; his throat closed, desperately clinging to what dead breath he still possessed like a fool drinking from an empty cup. His eyes closed tightly and his stomach felt like it was too full, tingling the back of his throat with that sharp flavor that reminded him of bad decisions and fears that he'd forgotten.

Something warm suddenly wrapped around him and Draco growled.

"No, no, don' you touch me," he rasped.

"Just shut up, you fucking twat." Draco was jostled about and his forehead knocked unpleasantly against something hard that smelled like salt and warmth, burning chest covered completely while his legs dangled, held up at the knees by strong arms. "Hang on to me if you like living." Slowly, with his nose against the hot dampness that was Harry Potter's back, Draco wound his arms around the neck in front of him, clinging just as desperately to his own consciousness as he did to the man carrying him.

* * *

><p>Harry made for the warehouse, trying to go as fast as he could without manhandling Malfoy too roughly. He could feel blood from the man's wounds soaking his shirt and blood dripping down along his waistline. Harry didn't care, though. When you live in the Drops, you learn not to think twice about bloodstains.<p>

The vision of Malfoy accidentally ripping himself open played over and over again in Harry's thoughts. His own hand had held tight to the blade, all strength pressing it forward in reaction to being shoved away; Malfoy just leaned right into it. Blood spurted from the wound in his hip in a scarlet wellspring and the idiot fell right onto it, face-first into the concrete. Everything just blended together. When the puddle of blood started blooming across the cement like an engorged rose, Harry yelled at Ron to run ahead and pull the first aid kit. Then he left the knives there on the ground and hauled Malfoy onto his back.

After the defeat of the Death Eaters, Harry had turned their headquarters into a Red Bolt safe house. It wasn't yet finished, but it had enough provisions to let Harry do what he needed. It wasn't far. Just a few more steps….

Ron had already thrown the doors open and Harry walked right inside, slowly lowering Malfoy onto a nearby couch that they'd hauled in a few days ago. He was sticky with blood and Harry just tore through the buttons of Malfoy's mangled shirt and carefully pulled it off of him. Behind him, Ron watched with his arms folded over his chest.

"Think he'll die?" he asked his best friend and leader.

"Not if I can help it," Harry said, opening the rusted tin box that served as a first aid kit. "We bring in the booze yet?"

"Uh, yeah, why?"

"Go get me a bottle of vodka, will ya?" Ron dashed off again. Harry wiped his hands on his denims for a moment, trying to smear the blood away and then leaned over Malfoy's shallowly-breathing form. "Oi," he said, smacking the blonde's cheek a couple times, "Open your eyes, ya twat."

Malfoy's eyelids fluttered and he wearily shook his head back and forth.

"I mean it," Harry snarled. "You fall asleep, you're dead. Wake up." Another smack to the face. Draco tried to take a deep breath, but was instantly cut down by the ache. He groaned, going to touch the wound in his hip, but Harry pinned that arm down. "Quit moving." Dazed grey eyes shifted over and found Harry's, staring blankly but somehow filled with such disdain.

"I'll kill you for this," Malfoy whispered.

"Great," Harry humored him, digging around in the box until he found a curved needle and a small spindle of thread. "How are you going to kill me? Tell me about it."

"Fuck you," Malfoy said. "I'll jus'…jus' fuckin' kill you."

"No, I wanna know how." Anything to keep him conscious. Ron came back with a couple of plastic water bottles filled with clear liquid, labels torn off.

"Thanks, mate," Harry said, taking them. "Go guard outside?"

"Yeah, sure," Ron said with a nod. "I'll go get your stuff, too."

Harry gave him a nod of gratitude and said, "You plan on killing me by lying on your back and panting like a bitch, Malfoy? That sounds interesting; can't wait to see how well that goes for you."

"Why don' you shut…_up_?" Malfoy whined, shaking his head back and forth slowly.

"Because that's what you want. Your happiness isn't my priority."

"Oh joy…."

"No, actually. No joy. Not for you." He unscrewed a cap off one of the bottles and poured a good bit of the liquid onto a thick stack of gauze, letting the needle rest there on it. Harry then hoisted himself up onto the sofa, sitting on the small space left near the crook of Malfoy's knees. Those eyes watched him warily.

"What are y' doin'?"

"I'm gonna dump this in your cut and it's going to make you scream so loud, your brains are gonna come out your eyeballs," Harry told him with a complete lack of sympathy. Malfoy's eyes widened a bit and he eyed the bottle with a fevered fear.

"At leas'…," he swallowed hard, "Give me some first so I can numb it out."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "I dunno, Malfoy," he said, sloshing the contents of the bottle a bit. "This swill ain't fit for nothing except putting in people's eyes to make them talk."

"Don' care," Malfoy insisted. "Errythin' hurts."

A shrug lifted Harry's shoulders and he passed the bottle to the dying man and let him drink. Malfoy cringed after the first swallow and Harry smirked silently at him before reaching down to pick up another.

"This is straight-up piss," the Family heir moaned, shaking his head again before bringing the bottle right back to his lips and nursing it like it was the only drink he had in life.

"Mmhm," Harry agreed. He had another wad of gauze in his hand and was dampening it with more vodka, this bunch a bit more saturated than the first. "You better bite your hand or something. This is gonna suck."

* * *

><p>Draco took a deep a breath as he could, the hot haze of drunkenness already surging through him. His eyes rolled a bit and he halfheartedly dug his fingers into the couch. Finally, he found Potter's face and latched onto those stunning green eyes. They stared at him and for a moment, a small flicker flitted through Draco's thoughts; he remembered something about how those eyes were worth causing trouble.<p>

The first splash of vodka filled up the deep gorge of the stab wound and Draco did scream. The sudden scalding shock, muscles clenching in reaction, blended with the heavily present loom of vodka in his stomach, causing a wave of nausea to roll through Draco. It took all that was in him to not throw himself forward and backhand Potter across the face. Every exhale came out in a strangled outcry. His healer was a cruel man, though, and barely gave Draco a second before spilling more of the alcohol all along his chest.

"GOD FUCKING DAMNIT! GO SUCK A COCK YOU SHITE-EATING SON OF A CUNT!"

Potter laughed softly. Draco wanted to rip every nerve out of his body and every hair from his head and he could only get away with screaming like he never had in his lifetime. He pretended that when his fingernails tore through the worn leather of the couch, he was actually ripping into Harry Potter's neck.

Potter swabbed the blood away, cleaning Draco's stained flesh with the clutch of soaked gauze he held. Every now and then, it would brush over part of the wound and Draco would dig his teeth deeper and deeper into his lip. The gauze was set over his stab wound and then Draco did bring his hands to his head, ripping his fingers into his scalp to try and counter the torture of it.

"Bet you're awake now," Potter mused lightly. There wasn't much sympathy in his tone, but neither was there triumph. Draco breathed. Breathed as much as he could with his fingernails leaving raw crescents hidden beneath his hair.

"I swear…to God," he croaked, "I'll strangle you."

"Well, you're gonna have to wait for me to finish sewing you up," Potter said. "You move around too much, I'll end up doing a shitty job." Harry pulled a lighter out from his pocket and retrieved the needle. There was a quiet click as he flicked open the Zippo and the muffled grind of the flint as a little flame blossomed to life.

Draco choked a bit at the sight.

"Are you completely barmy?" he demanded. He tried to push himself away, but it just didn't happen. "You know what the fuck you're doing?"

"Sure I do," Potter assured him, the tongue of flame licking the needle's point. "I've been stitching cuts for years. I'll make it nice and pretty for you."

There was silence between them as Potter threaded the needle and Draco stared at the bright red bandana tied around that ruffian's forehead. The color of it really made the green in his eyes stand out like a vein of malachite in pale ceramic. The warehouse was sweltering, the metal walls rattling with the hum of whatever machinery generated the electricity. The sweat on Draco's forehead sneaked down his neck and under his collar as he forced himself to take long breaths.

"Plus, in our line of work, a good looking scar does wonders for drawing in the girls." Potter's statement drew Draco out of his quiet contemplation. He made a screwed up grimace at Potter's smirk.

"Or…blokes, maybe, in your case?" the brunet offered, clipping the length of thread.

"Stuff it, Potter," Draco growled. He sighed and wrapped his hands around the mostly empty water bottle. "You gonna finish this anytime soon?"

"Be quiet and drink your juice." Draco didn't need telling twice. He lamely chucked the barren vessel away when he was done with it, fingers digging lightly into the marred sofa cushions.

"Get on with it," he said, staring up at the high ceiling. Steel beams crosshatched over the expanse and Draco counted the rows to keep himself from thinking.

"Try to relax, yeah?" Potter gave Draco a reassuring pat on the knee and then leaned over, pushing the stack of wet gauze off of the stab wound at his hip.

* * *

><p>The best thing Harry had for a needle driver were a pair of tweezers. So with those, he gripped the silver crescent and pushed it through Malfoy's flesh until he could see the point protruding from the jagged orifice of the wound. The blond sucked in a sharp breath as Harry nudged the metal back out of the gash once again and then pulled the thread through until it the knot nestled easily against pale flesh, like a tiny black flower bud in the snow.<p>

He worked as efficiently as he could, utilizing all of his focus to make sure the flesh pulled back together soundly. Malfoy didn't scream anymore, which was a nice reprieve for Harry's eardrums. Instead, he made these thin huffing noises and short groans every time the needle pierced through his skin, drawing the thread through.

Seven minutes in, when the deepest part of the wound had been mended, Harry went ahead and tied it off before measuring out another length of thread.

"You're doing well," he said lightly. "You ever gotten stitched up before?"

Malfoy breathed slowly and swallowed again before answering.

"Once," he said quietly, eyes wandering to where Harry was fiddling with the rethreading. "I'd been kidnapped for ransom by these thugs. They cut my legs so I couldn' run away easily. When I got picked up, I wen' to a hospital." The drunken gaze narrowed suddenly. "Only _they_ had anesthesia like normal people."

"Yeah, well, we're not so fortunate here in the Drops." Harry shifted on the couch, moving Malfoy's legs so he could kneel between them.

"You don' hones'ly do this erry time one a' your boys gets a cut, do ya?" His questions dissolved into a sharp hiss of pain as Harry went back to work.

"Nah," he said, pulling the needle through the other side of the gash. The metal of the driver made and almost inaudible click as it clasped to the thin silver curve. "Some of my boys won't set foot in a hospital, though. So it's a handy trick to know."

Malfoy didn't have any more questions, too preoccupied with pushing through the pain. Harry steadily worked his way up Malfoy's torso. Every now and then, Harry would cast a glance to the man's face, particularly when he let out a startled gasp or a soft moan of pain from the needle's intrusion. His fair cheeks were rosy and sweat jeweled his forehead. Those strands of white-blond hair stuck to his brow and were mussed at the back of his head from where he'd thrashed a bit. Thin lips were slightly parted for his breath, the bottom one with just a slight sheen of saliva glossing it. If Harry mentally removed the ugly slash that was cut across his chest—now red and puckered with black fibers weaving along it—he would've said that Malfoy looked like he just had a shag or two. His mind was absent from his eyes when they chanced to open, completely lost in the swell of sensation, however brutal it might've been.

Grey eyes opened with a slight flutter of light lashes and gave him this look, one that said 'I know you're not done yet; why have you stopped?' So, remembering himself, Harry put one hand on Malfoy waist to brace himself a bit as he budged the needle through again. The skin beneath his hand was clammy but absolutely smooth under Harry's calloused fingers. Stitch by stitch, he closed the cleft of flesh. Things got a bit awkward for him when Harry was patching up the area near Malfoy's sternum and accidently brushed one pink nipple with the side of his hand. Malfoy made another one of those soft groaning sounds and Harry almost blurted out an apology. But then he figured he'd just pretend it was because of the jabbing needle and brush it off.

God, why wasn't there any air conditioning in this stupid warehouse? It seemed to be the only thing he could think of, now that his gaze kept inadvertently returning to the hardened nub of flesh. Apparently pain and pleasure blurred together for this one. Malfoy was enjoying this on some level. The space was positively sweltering but his nipples were hard. Must've been a masochist hiding under there somewhere, Harry reckoned. Then he decided that even though he was definitely disgusted by the thought of making Malfoy randy by repeatedly impaling him, he was still going to see it through to the end and get him fixed up. His head felt hot.

"He doing alright?" a voice asked behind him. Ron's.

"Yeah. I'm done," Harry said. He leaned in close and tied off the last end of thread near Malfoy's collar bone. The patient himself was looking rather weary indeed, his eyes half-lidded. "Still alive in there?" Harry asked.

"Mmhmm." Malfoy's hand went wandering, struggling a bit to reach into his pocket. Harry watched him warily but the man only produced a cell phone and began fiddling around with it. Assured that he wasn't going to get shot when his back was turned, Harry got off the couch and accepted the t-shirt, gun and both knives that Ron held out to him.

"You can go on home if you want," Harry told him. "I'm gonna stick around a bit longer and make sure he doesn't fuck himself over while the wound sets. Thanks for watching out."

"No problem." Ron reached out and gave Harry a strong pat on the shoulder, smiling at him. "You did good today, mate. Not only in that fight but with the whole taking care of him thing." There was a slight shrug and then he added, "Not that I care at all about that stuck-up twink. But it never ceases to amaze me how much of a hero you are."

"I can't tell if you're praising me or mocking me," Harry said, giving Ron a laugh and a friendly shove.

"A bit of both, if I'm honest." Ron clapped Harry on the back and then departed the warehouse as Harry pulled his shirt on and shoved the .22 into his pocket.

It would take about an hour or so for Malfoy to be in a fit-enough state to leave. Harry figured he had a lot of time to waste. So he sat down on the floor next to the sofa and started working on his own cut. For a moment, he leered at the last bottle of vodka that was there and then decided that he wasn't going to make any noise when he cleaned his wound with it.

Easier said than done; he almost bit his tongue in half stifling himself.

"Fuck, that's awful," he muttered and went about suturing himself back together again, focusing on the steady sound of Malfoy's breath.

* * *

><p>Draco was stuck. He'd eventually put the cell phone down, deciding that he could make arrangements to get out of this hell hole after he'd gained some strength back. Just ten minutes of rest, then he'd hobble over to his car and go home to hole up for a week until he could get those goddamn stitches out of his chest. He wanted to scratch at them. They tickled and pinched and tugged at his skin and it was making him crazy. Draco couldn't sleep like that.<p>

He opened his eyes after a few minutes and just watched Potter sitting there, sewing up the wound that Draco had given him—pathetic in comparison to the one Draco had sustained. At least he got one on him at all; would've been a crying shame if he hadn't even managed to leave his mark in some way.

Potter had his shirt back on now, a tight-fitting grey tee with a few holes in the collar. No duster coat today. It was way too hot. Sweat stains soaked through the fabric at Potter's shoulders and back. Moisture dotted along his red bandana.

"Potter," Draco murmured when the Red Bolt leader finally managed to knot the thread with only one hand of thick fingers.

"Oh, you're awake," Potter said, turning to look at Draco with only a hint of amusement in his gaze.

"'Course I'm awake; it's going to take a lot more booze to knock me out with this thing on me." Draco managed to sit up, but it took a couple minutes and it hurt like nothing Draco had experienced before. Eventually, he was in an upright position, though more exhausted for his efforts. "I need you to do something for me."

"What's that?" Potter's tone suggested that he wasn't really inclined toward performing favors for Draco at the moment. The look in his eyes said that he was going to do it anyway as long as it wasn't outrageous.

"I need you to drive me home," Draco said, picking up his cell phone to check the time. Almost three. "I don't think I can do it and you're severely lacking in morphine." Potter chuckled. "I'll compensate you for it somehow. Buy you a drink sometime, whatever. I'll even give you cab fare so you can get home. Just get me out of this place."

"I don't need your money, Malfoy," Potter told him, packing up the first aid kit. "I can take the train just fine." He stood and turned around, leaning to sling his arm around Draco's back and haul him to his feet. "Can you walk or do I need to carry you again?"

"I've had enough of your degradation for today, thank you; I can use my feet just fine." Even so, that strong arm never let Draco go. Potter supported him all the way to the Benz and even helped Draco settle comfortably in the passenger's seat.

"Your bike gonna be okay?" Draco asked as he handed the keys over to Potter, receiving a now spotless butterfly knife in return.

"It'll be fine. Ron'll be back with someone to pick it up."

Luxury AC blowing gently on Draco's face was a welcome comfort and he found himself almost emotionally moved by it. Funny what nice ventilation will do for dying man. Though Draco felt far from dead. Just exhausted. His bare shoulders stuck to the leather seat and he hated the song on the radio but Draco knew that there was something nice about how awful he felt. A reminder that sometimes he was wrong, and things weren't perfect in his life like he had grown to think. There was a thrill in that.

"Where do you live?" Potter asked as they pulled away from the harbor.

"Tuolle. The glass complex on Blueburn Street."

They said nothing else in that car. Draco honestly didn't want to make Potter drive him home but calling one of his father's men to come pick him up was absolutely not an option. Because if that happened, then his father would have to know the why's and how's of it all and Draco didn't have anything to tell him. Not about starting petty fights with street thugs, ending with the Malfoy heir looking like an idiot with his guts spilling out.

Disgrace. He could hear Lucius now. Absolutely uncouth.

Whatever. If his curiosity earned him a battle scar, then so be it. At least he'd never forget the bloke. Draco had a feeling he didn't want to. And like the bored fool that he was, he didn't think he was just going to let this encounter be the end, either.

The drive across the city was smoother than Draco expected. Watching Potter tear around on that Ducati of his made Draco brace himself for some haphazard imitation of drift racing. But the man was easy on the brakes and came to a full stop at every sign. He even used the turn signal like he actually had the brains for it, unlike most people on the island, gangster or not. Fortunately, the lunch rush had died down by that time and Draco remained quite stationary in his seat without the back and forth of acceleration. Potter handled the car like a pro. If Draco didn't know he'd get shot for it, he would've offered the man to chauffeur him around full time.

When they reached Draco's flat, Potter helped him up to the penthouse and came inside only to make sure that Draco made it to bed without crashing. Then he smiled, refused Draco's money again and put his number in the blond's cell phone. Draco had demanded it.

"You may not want to take the money of a mobster," he'd said as he took the phone back from Potter, "but I won't let you refuse this one. You need to know what real vodka should taste like. So help me God, I will show you what an injustice you are doing to your men by letting them drink that gutter runoff."

"Right, right." Potter waved him off with a small smile. "And maybe I can show you how to throw attacks off without turning yourself into a side of beef."

"Get out now, Potter."

"You got it, Boss."

Draco leaned against the cradle of pillows with the phone ringing in his ear. When the other end picked up, he snapped, "Zabini, if you're not over here in ten minutes with enough morphine to make me sleep forever, I swear I'm going to rip you a new one, tear your bollocks off and them shove them into that gaping, bleeding hole."

_-To Be Continued-_


	5. But Your Body Still Rocks

AN: This chapter murdered me. I'm not one for action scenes, let me say that. But a million thanks to Toasty, the best beta on the planet. And thank you to my patient readers. I hope you enjoy.

* * *

><p>Harry leveled his gun at the man's kneecaps. His finger curled around the trigger, unleashing a torrid burst of fire. The shoulder stock shuddered against him. A spray of blood erupted, stirring a savage glint in the cruel green of Harry's eyes. The man hit the freighter's deck with a dull metallic thud. Harry got to his feet and ran over to where he'd fallen. Harry's boot came down on the man's neck; vertebrae strained and snapped beneath his heel with a gut-lurching <em>crack<em>. Most of the sound was swallowed in the racket of bullets and battle cries. Harry snatched up the AK-47 his newly deceased target had dropped, slinging it over his shoulder before ducking around another storage crate.

In a blink, Harry's gun went up when he saw one pointed right at him. But then both weapons were lowered. Harry let out a breath and crouched down next to where Ron was kneeling.

"Do you _ever_ get bloodstains on that coat?" Ron teased before he checked around the crate again.

"How many left?" Harry asked. He shoved a new magazine into his submachine gun and turned the safety off again.

"A good few. Still gotta take care of the lower levels—secure the engine room and all that—but that shouldn't be a problem. Fred and George are already rigging up the stuff to smoke 'em out."

"Good. Hold tight."

Harry gave his friend a smack on the shoulder and then ran past him, knowing that Ron had his back covered.

Brooding waves lapped against the ship, blanketing corpses as they were tossed overboard. Briny breezes and salt spray glanced off the dark waters, fueling Harry's adrenaline. He wove between multicolored crates and tucked himself in the small spaces between kills.

These idiots were no good, Harry thought to himself. If they couldn't handle a small-scale raid like this, then the Families must've been scraping for people wherever they could get them. Harry took a breath and crouched down, crawling along between a long line of crates and the very edge of the barge, working his way towards the steerage cabin. These men guarding the ship were too focused on the commotion the other Red Bolts were making on the docks—too busy, startled by the sudden chaos, to watch their own backs.

Harry, Ron, Neville and the twins had already boarded the ship itself, their small group was steadily picking off the crew: taking out the few who stood out in the open and then waiting for the others to poke their heads up to see what happened. Some of the goons were actually starting to notice something was wrong up top—the dumb fucks. Things were just about to get interesting.

Harry ground his teeth together, tightening his hand around the gun's foregrip, a new target in his sights—a new corpse to warm the water. One second of fire and there'd be a new Pollock-impression to paint the crates. This one caught sight—Harry drew a breath—of someone down on the docks. The man bolted to the edge of the ship to shoot at whoever he'd seen.

That was just the opportunity to take him down. Beyond the muffle of plugs in his ears, his shots rang out, sending his target reeling. With a bloodied seizure, the man fell overboard. Harry let out a short sigh and then continued on his mission towards the cabin. Before he could take one step, another goon had run out to take the other's place. A bit quicker on the uptake, this one instantly caught sight of Harry and raised his gun. Before Harry had the moment to eliminate the threat, loud shots rang out from offside. One took the newcomer's head off; it burst like a water balloon of viscera. The second shot blew through a nearby propane tank.

Harry ducked behind a crate and hit the deck, managing to avoid the brunt of the explosion. But just as the blast calmed, there came a roar of ripping metal. Harry put his hands over his head and braced himself as something huge and heavy crashed through the deck, rocking the ship back and forth with an angry jolt. He lifted his head cautiously when things had settled; a crane—bolted to the deck to load supplies—had toppled with the tank's explosion, busting a hole right into the cargo hull. Harry cursed. Wildly, he scanned the upper walkways of the docks to see who had fired that shot.

Standing on the observing deck above the docking zone was Seamus with his sawed-off shotgun still braced against his shoulder and horror in his wide eyes.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck!"

Harry ran. He tore out of that place, going for the flare at his hip, but…fuck, he couldn't! Not with propane leaking everywhere. Couldn't risk starting more fires. So he ripped the radio from his belt, screaming into it.

"Hermione! Throw up the retreat, now!"

"What's happened?" her static-hazed voice panicked from the docks. "Are you alright?"

"NOW!"

He didn't wait for her response. Harry continued to run, dodging between crates, ripping the customs papers from as many as he could. Seamus! Fucking idiot! Harry had told them all not to hide up in the observation area for this exact reason. That crane probably punched right through the fuel supply; that barge was just a bomb waiting to blow. Some of his lieutenants were already yelling through their radios, crowding the channel with frantic voices, but Harry didn't have time to answer.

"Neville!" he called when he caught sight of the man. "Grab the papers! We need to get out of here, now!"

Neville obeyed immediately, running alongside Harry, ripping documents from the crates they passed. "What about the others?" he asked urgently. "Fred? George?"

"If they're smart, they'll get their arses in gear! Run!"

A roar of a sudden blaze exploded behind them and Harry took off towards the ramp. He could already see the giant bloom of yellow smoke rising from the harbor into the overcast skies.

A bellow from behind him made Harry turn. Without second thought, he shot through the man's chest and watched him fall.

Panic burned in Harry's eyes like the peripheral blaze not far from him. But he wasn't getting off the freighter until he'd seen all his men leave before him. Neville had already rushed down to the docks, snatching papers as he went. Just then, the twins came running. George went drifting around the corner with such effortless grace; his slide through that puddle of blood and brain matter looked deliberate. Fred wasn't far behind. He vaulted over corpses and overturned palletes, one hand pressing a stitch in his side and the other brandishing his Desert Eagle.

"Go on! Move it, move it!" Harry waved them over and scanned the deck again for Ron. His best mate skidded into sight and sprinted right at Harry, practically leaping onto the ramp when he reached it.

Harry did a final check of the deck, the fires slowly climbing further and higher. Straggling members of the crew ran towards the blaze, trying to quell it in whatever ways they could. Harry growled, resisting the urge to shoot them and instead followed after his men.

"Harry! Harry, what happened?" Ginny came up to meet them as they arrived at the docks.

"How much has the retrieval squad managed to get?" Harry demanded, looking behind her to check on the Bolts. Everyone was running around, yelling. The bullets had stopped flying. For one moment, Harry glanced up at the stairs that led to the observation platform. Seamus wasn't there anymore.

"Only the shipments they already loaded onto the docks," Ginny said. There was blood dripping down into her eyes.

"That's gonna have to do; deck's breached. Fire gets to the tanks, we're all fucked." He ushered Ginny away and made a break for the overlook where all their vehicles were parked. "Everyone go!"

There was a mad rush of people as they all ran. Then the terrifying chase of gun fire as someone on deck took notice and shot at them. Harry yelled angrily and jumped onto his bike, Ginny grabbing onto him as he revved it and took off.

He didn't look back. Ahead of him, the vans and trucks full of the "acquired currency" were already reaching the gates. Harry was the last man to go through, bringing up the rear as the Bolts picked up speed and burned rubber for a few good kilometers. It wasn't long until they reached the city limits again. Right as they hit the border, the sky caught fire.

The force of it shook through the streets and rattled the entire island. Nearby pedestrians who were already panicking at the onslaught of reckless drivers shrieked in terror. Harry could feel the heat of the blast at his back, though Ginny's stranglehold grip around his waist. His bike was unsteady only for a moment and when he regained traction, Harry gunned it hard, pushing towards his crew. The sound of the engine growling echoed the snarl of anger unfurling in his chest.

Hot like molten iron.

* * *

><p>"Seamus Finnigan."<p>

There was a hush over the Red Bolts as they stood, gathered in the Spot. Called that simply because it was the common meeting territory for the gang: an old, abandoned train station with tracks long since disconnected from the running lines. They all stood in the main hall—bloodied, dirty and sweating—a crowd not too far from the doors with Harry several steps ahead. He faced the back wall, towards the passages that led to the platforms. Behind him there was the shuffling of tired feet and clinking of weaponry. Solitary footsteps approached and stopped a metre or so behind Harry. He turned.

Seamus stood there, staring at his leader with barely disguised fear in his steady gaze. Harry walked towards him with a leer and came to a halt at his diagonal, shifting his focus to the gang. They were all more visibly shaken, dozens of eyes knowing just what was happening and not having to put up a brave face for anyone. They'd already had those masks up where it counted. Their fight was over.

Harry put his hand on Seamus' shoulder and shoved him into an about-face. Then he began pacing behind the man's back. Every eye in the room, save Seamus's, followed him.

"Who are these people, Seamus?" Harry asked, hands going into the pockets of his coat as he walked. He watched as Seamus swallowed, looking out at everyone. Most of them were looking at Harry, a sort of terror in their eyes.

"The Red Bolts," Seamus answered. His voice cracked.

"Are they all here?" Harry asked further. "Go ahead. Count them."

It took a while. Harry didn't mind waiting. He knew how many there were; he'd done the headcount himself and then made Hermione double check the number.

"Everyone's here," Seamus finally said after a few minutes.

"Look here."

Seamus turned to face Harry where he stood at the man's left side now. As soon as he did, Harry whipped out his switchblade and slashed it diagonally up Seamus's face. The scream Seamus let out was more from being startled. Harry had deliberately made the cut shallow and was sure to avoid eyes. Seamus still fell to his knees and bled. It spilled down into his fingers and pattered along the floor. Seams clenched his teeth, every exhale pushing out in pain.

"I gave you an order," Harry snarled, looking down at him, the blade still in his hand, barely a drop of blood on it. "Before we started this raid, I gave everyone here an order to stay low and watch that propane. I specifically pointed out that deck as off-limits because of the risk of hitting the tank. What the _fuck_ did you do?"

"I…I-I went there a-anyway," Seamus bit out.

"You did _exactly_ what I warned against."

"I saved your life!"

"_Fuck that, Seamus, you could've killed everyone_!" Harry lifted a foot and kicked Seamus onto his back, planting his boot on the man's sternum as he stared down in absolute fury.

"I give you orders for a reason! If you can't get it into that thick skull of yours that my orders are to be obeyed, you need to get the fuck out of this gang! I will not have ANY of my men killed for stupid shite like disobedience! Got it?"

There was such silence. Harry's rage writhed around in it and turned the air electric, crimson. The others might as well have been invisible. Harry only saw the bloodied face of the one under his foot, only heard the low ringing of fury that danced about his head. Adrenaline and cruelty boiled through his veins. He wanted to tear into Seamus, rend him to pieces, force him to pay back in ripped flesh and broken bone what he'd risked today.

But he didn't.

With a slow, rattling breath, Harry put the knife away and took his boot from Seamus's chest. He backed away before turning to his crew, hands returning to his pockets, curled into tight fists. They all stared at him, stock still, looking like they knew they were next.

"I'm warning all of you," Harry said lowly, forcing the wrath back into its cage at the darkest part of himself. "If anyone disobeys me, you'll pay for it in blood. Go home. Rest. You've done well today."

There was a soft scuffing of feet as the crowd dispersed. Harry turned and moved towards the platforms without giving a second glance towards Seamus.

"Harry, what about the papers!" Hermione called out behind him. Harry just shook his head and let the shadows fold around him.

"Let him be," he heard Ron say. "Doubt he can think straight right now."

* * *

><p>Harry walked to the very edge of the platform and sat down, letting his legs dangle over the edge as he leaned into himself, clenching his hands in his hair.<p>

They'd lost so much. Grabbing the customs papers was a step in the right direction. But they'd only managed those and the few palates of cash that had already been brought onto the docks. That was all money that had been siphoned from government mint, going straight to some Family vault to bolster their underground trading and black market deals. Cash that would be better off in the hands of the inhabitants of the Drops, people who needed it just to buy bandages for their kids' scraped knees, people who didn't have enough food to keep their families alive.

All that money was gone, now. Burned and turned to waterlogged ash. All because of some stupid….

Harry howled. The sound of it echoed through the black hall, ricocheting off the walls and through the tunnels, out into the night. His fists pulled at his hair and stubbed nails dug into the flesh of his scalp. Shite like this…. Fucking shite like this….

Another roar.

Wasted. All that effort for so little gain.

Harry wanted to break something. Didn't matter what. It just needed to break. To shatter. The desire for destruction clawed up his spine like a vicious parasite and his hands trembled.

He swallowed. Breathed. Turned his face towards the high, blackened ceiling.

"No," he murmured. "No. Don't. Walk it off. Just walk it off, Harry."

And with that, he pushed himself off the ledge and started following the tracks. It might take him hours to 'just walk it off.' But Harry had learned long ago that giving in to impassioned impulses could get people hurt. He'd only just managed to keep from scalping Seamus. Nothing and no one else would suffer at his hands tonight.

So Harry walked it off with those hands in his pockets and his mind on something other than regret.

* * *

><p>Draco laughed. He laughed like he hadn't in a long while. And though the action made the tender flesh of his chest tighten in protest, he couldn't help himself. The newspaper had fallen to his lap as he put his face in his hands and tried to stifle his chuckles.<p>

"Red Bolts Bomb Family Freighter," the headline read, followed by a colorful article detailing a wild raid manned by hundreds of ruthless youth with an armory of military proportions. Draco didn't know what was more amusing, the newspaper's blatant hyperbole concerning the destructive force of the Red Bolts or the fact that the Red Bolts had managed to make such a mess with what few able bodies they actually boasted. Draco ultimately concluded he was impressed the Red Bolts made such a ruckus; he'd felt the explosion himself, and it was miles away.

That blaze wasn't hard to see from the glass-walled space of his flat. Draco had been sitting on his sofa with a cup of tea and a stack of contracts to pretend to read and care about. Then the ground shook and fire burst into the sky from over by the docks. Draco had stared, silent and wide-eyed. For some reason, even though he honestly had no idea what had happened, he knew that Harry Potter and his Red Bolts had something to do with it.

Which was why it was twice as funny when he picked up his paper the next morning and saw how the gang had been turned into some anarchist legion. Honestly, the propaganda this island spouted was downright comedy.

Draco was positive that everything detailed in the article was either a complete fabrication or just absurdly embellished truth. But he was still curious. No one had ever blown up a ship on a raid. They must've had some pretty impressive pyrotechnics and a grudge against someone. So Draco, being the curious and bored man that he was, picked up his phone and searched through his contacts.

When he found the one he wanted, Draco sat with the phone to his ear, just grinning. God, this was the most fun he'd had in ages and it wasn't even his own doing. No one picked up the first time, but he tried again. He wasn't going to give up on this one: then he'd be bored again. No point in that when he could be out entertaining himself.

"Do you realize what time it is?"

Draco raised an eyebrow, smirk widening at the sound of a rather exhausted voice finally picking up. "It's well after nine, Potter. Most of the world has been alive and functioning for a few hours."

There was an annoyed groan and the sound of shifting, the squeak of a mattress.

"What do you want?"

"I wanted to congratulate you on your latest daring conquest at the harbor. Bravo, bravo."

Another groan.

"It's in the papers then?"

"Front page, even."

"Brilliant…."

"My thoughts exactly," Draco said, the grin permanently plastered to his face. "So I thought I'd offer you a celebratory drink over at N&C this evening."

"What? No, Malfoy, I—"

"I won't let you refuse me, Potter. I've been bored out of my fucking mind and you're the best excuse I've got to get out of here. Plus, you owe me for unnecessarily ripping me open and then making me drink that horse piss you call vodka."

"You were the one who—"

"You're honestly going to turn down all the free booze you can drink?"

Draco heard Potter groan and grumble in frustration before finally letting out a long sigh.

"Fine. Ten o'clock?"

"I'll see you there."

Draco hung up and tossed the phone onto the table with a small chuckle. Apparently the leader of the Red Bolts was easily negotiable in the morning. That'd be a good little tidbit to hang on to. That, or he just really liked to get smashed. Equally useful in its own right. Draco stuffed the last bit of his toast into his mouth and gently ran his fingers across his shirt, feeling the sting of the fabric as it brushed against his sutured wound.

* * *

><p>"You ever been here before?"<p>

Harry shook his head and continued to look around, scoping the bar. It was in a basement beneath some sparsely-inhabited building in Weslock. You could only get to the entrance by walking down a dark, narrow alley and practically tearing your arm out of socket to get the scuffed metal door open. The bar was dark, with stairs leading straight down into a wide, open space. It glowed with a soft indigo light among dark granite tabletops and black metal. The bar itself was backlit in a more easily managed white light, so that's where Harry sat with Malfoy, green eyes flicking up at the bartender every now and then.

The woman paid him no mind, but he'd never seen so many piercings in a human being before.

"I'm surprised that you know about a place like this," Harry said to Malfoy. Several of the patrons looked like those gothed-up fanatics only found at industrial metal concerts.

"Draws a weird crowd, for sure," Malfoy agreed, "But Mona here makes a kicking cocktail, don't you, love?"

"Keep your coddling to yourself, Draco," the buxom woman said, wagging an empty tumbler at him in warning. "What can I get you gents this evening?"

"I'll have a Greyhound and this one's going to have a Moscow Mule."

"Am I?"

"Just take it, Potter. You can get whatever you want afterwards." Malfoy rolled his eyes and cracked a grin at him.

Harry sighed and shrugged. It was Malfoy's treat, so he supposed the least he could do was let the man give him one recommendation. Not that it made him feel any better about being there in the first place. True, the alcohol was welcome enough, particularly after the grating regret of yesterday's failures lingered.

"So what really happened, then?"

And, _of course_, Malfoy just wanted to have a good laugh at Harry's expense and dropped salt right into that open wound.

"I really don't see how that concerns you at all, Malfoy," Harry huffed out.

"Well, of course it does. Unless you _want_ me to believe that you're planning on bombing the courthouses next."

Harry rolled his eyes. La Croix newspaper writers needed to think about making a career change for screenplay writing.

"We weren't trying to blow the damn boat," Harry said. "It was an accident that it went up before we were through."

"That's what I thought," Malfoy said, nodding to himself. "I know you all are hell-bent on tearing down organized crime and whatnot—rather hypocritical of you, by the way—but this move seemed a bit too drastic for your style. Too…pointlessly thrilling."

Harry chuckled under his breath. No delicacy with this one, apparently. He looked over at the man next to him, meeting grey eyes that sparkled with challenge and amusement. They peered at him from over those piano fingers that were laced placidly, attempting to hide the smirk on Malfoy's lips.

"I thought the aristocrats were supposed to keep their insults thinly veiled," Harry said just as the bartender came back and set a copper mug garnished with a lime slice in front of him. He thanked her and then brought the drink to his lips. It was cold—sour and sweet and just a bit fizzy. Harry smiled as he swallowed, welcoming the lovely burn down his throat. There was ginger beer in it. He gave a short laugh.

"What's funny?" Malfoy asked after putting down his own glass.

"Nothing," Harry said. "You have good taste."

"Of course I do. Now, would you mind sharing what your gang was _really_ trying to accomplish at the docks?"

Harry looked over at Malfoy…who was looking right back, completely unapologetic.

"I would," Harry said pointedly.

"Really?" Malfoy took another sip from his glass. "If you were looking to be covert, you rather blasted that plan to hell when you…well, when you turned that barge into a fireworks display." The laugh was silent, but Harry leered at the glitter of it in Malfoy's eyes.

"I'm not in the habit of divulging plans to the enemy, Malfoy; you'll have to forgive me."

"Enemy?" Malfoy scoffed. "I'm not your enemy, Potter."

"The hell you are," Harry said. "You're the son of Lucius Malfoy, the top threat to my cause: the icon of everything I stand against. For Christ's sake, you're the bloke who challenged me to a bloody knife fight over spilling beer on a girl's outfit." He took a deep draught from the copper mug and then smacked it back down on the bar-top. "I still don't even know why the hell I'm sitting here with you; I don't fraternize with enemies."

"That's because I'm not your enemy," Malfoy repeated with another roll of his eyes. "Good lord, if you're basing that assumption on the fact that I happen to be a Family heir then you're under the wrong impression."

Harry scrunched his brow and shook his head, the cool, heavy sway of the drink in his stomach making heat gush through his veins. "How d'ya figure?" he asked, tongue swiping a droplet from his top lip.

"My father's work is his own. It's of no deep interest or consequence to me what he does with his life," Malfoy said. "You honestly think I'd treat you to drinks over this if I gave a rat's arse about Family prosperity?" He swirled the ice around in his glass. Tired eyes stared at the backlit shelves of liquor bottles and Malfoy chuckled humorlessly. "Being a mafia boy is easy for me, so that's what I'm doing for now. Something better comes along, I'll be off this rock before my father can even turn his head."

With his mug empty, curiosity piqued and rather unsatisfied, Harry stared at Malfoy, trying to find his answers without asking any questions. All he could glean, though, was that the man looked well rested for someone who'd been slashed up a few days before. His face was still pale, but Malfoy's skin was clear and smooth, with no dark circles beneath his eyes like Harry had seen on most of his men.

Harry was under no illusions. Malfoy might've said that he didn't care about his circumstances, but he didn't know what it was like to sleep on a shitty mattress stuck in the corner of a halfway house. He never had to wonder when his next meal would be or if he'd be able to go to the store without getting mugged. There was a horror story from every member in the Red Bolts. Harry bet that the worst experience Malfoy ever had was almost getting gutted by a switchblade.

"So you're a coward, then," Harry said after asking the bartender for a Gin and Tonic. He could feel Malfoy gaping at him. "You've got no ambition." A thick silence settled over the two of them. Harry just sat there and watched for Malfoy's reaction. Eventually, the blond sighed and gave a smooth grin.

"Sure, I can see that," he conceded. "Call it what you like, but it works for me."

Well, he may have been a coward, but at least he owned it with pride. Harry could respect that. The real issue—he mulled it over as he took up his drink—was that now Harry couldn't fit Malfoy into either of the neatly labeled boxes in his head: Enemy or Ally.

If the heir didn't honestly have his heart in supporting his Family's goals, Harry didn't have a way to approach him anymore. At least not one that he was comfortable with. As an enemy, it was easy just to say that he'd keep his defenses up, glean what secrets he could from their sparse interactions, watch for an opening and then take him out when that opportunity presented itself.

That was the original plan, anyway. But Malfoy had effectively removed himself from that target area with that unexpected confession of his. Harry believed him. Not enough to divulge his gang's objectives, of course. Family loyalty wasn't something you scoffed at unless you were willing to put your head in the cross-hairs. Harry wondered if Malfoy realized how much danger he was in by claiming what he had. In this city, keeping your loyalties to yourself meant fighting by yourself. A great risk to take in a war of merciless opponents.

These were things that Harry was still turning over in his mind as he left the bar later in the evening. Draco Malfoy gave him a hearty pat on the back, mentioning something about repeating the outing another time and then sauntered away with a bit of a drunken stumble. Harry blamed the swell of alcohol in his brain for his wild gaze lingering on the sway and dip of Malfoy's arse as he departed. Wasn't like he was looking because he wanted to; just zoning out and that's where his eyes happened to focus while he thought about…oh god, he didn't even care now.

The phone in his pocket buzzed and Harry picked it up a bit slower than usual.

" 'lo?"

"You should come home," Ginny said softly. He could hear the little grin in her voice. It made him smile too. "I know you're still upset about yesterday, but I think I can find a way to take your mind off it."

"Brilliant," Harry said. A laugh sighed out of his tired smile. "I'll be there before you know it."

"Be safe."

Harry made his way back to the train station, glad to leave his mind behind in that alley. It'd be back for him in the morning—dizzy and hung-over after sliding along filthy sidewalks and sunbathing in yellow streetlights—but for now he was content to let the booze and his best girl push away the things that mattered for a while.

_-To Be Continued-_


End file.
